Postal Pest Police
by MorayEel
Summary: The Postal Dude sets off to do his errands, but encounters a dubious man that offers him a job in the "Paradise Pest Police" business. Will he regret his decision? Rated M for strong language and violence.
1. Chapter One: A case of the Mondays

It was Monday in Paradise, Arizona. It was about eight-thirty AM and the alarm clock inside the Dude's trailer beeped without end. That is, until he swatted it to the floor in hungover and half-awakened disgust. As the Postal Dude sobered up, he threw on his usual attire. It consisted of a dark-brown trench coat, his alien logo blue shirt, and a pair of tight, comfortable, and dirty jeans. To top off his outfit, he slid on a pair of generic sunglasses. That is when he realized how hot it was, considering it was July in Arizona.

"Christ, it's as hot as the Devil's rectum in here. When did we move to Hell?" the Dude asked his wife, The Bitch, who was busy reading the local news of the elections coming up and the candidates. She was horribly obese and was missing at least half her teeth.

"You were the one who insisted on relocating for that stupid video game job!" bitched the Bitch as the Postal Dude tried to turn on the air conditioning. To his surprise, it was broken.

"Broken. Figures." The Postal Dude whipped out his Deagle pistol that was in his pants as he shot the useless piece of machinery. He put it back in his pants and tried to make his way over to the fridge, where he tripped and knocked down several cans of canned goods.

"When you're done screwing around, I've made a list of errands for you on the fridge."

The Postal Dude got up and did not walk towards the fridge, but hobbled like a gimp. He snatched the list and stuffed it into his pocket. The refrigerator door swung open and displayed all the usual items one would expect. Except for milk, which the Dude craved to get rid of his hangover.

"Where's the milk!?"

"It's on the damn list!"

"I'll put you on a damn list…" the Dude muttered back and left the trailer to the outside world. The temperature was approximately ninety degrees Fahrenheit and already the Dude started to sweat.

"And don't forget my Rocky Road!" the Bitch added as a last-minute errand to shove onto the Dude. He didn't listen as he went to his car to start the engine. He tried in vain for minutes until he decided to do all the errands on foot.

"All right, fine. We'll do this the tedious way. Now let's see here…"

He took out the list and read off the errands he had to do:

"Pick up some milk at the Lucky Ganesh…"

"Swing by work. Now, I was pretty hungover yesterday, but I think I remember where I work. Yeah, I do."

"Cash my crappy little paycheck. Simple enough."

The Dude stashed the list in his pocket again and went to the shed by the trailer. It contained nothing but a rustic shovel and a heavily-used crack pipe. The Dude grinned and put the pipe in his other pocket while carrying the shovel with one hand. While it may not look completely legal, he had a way to deal with whoever pissed him off. Now fully ready, the Dude set off on his journey to get cash and the milk on behalf of the Bitch.

The Dude's first stop was the Lucky Ganesh, the "All-American" grocery store. The moment he walked inside, he was greeted with a nauseating and horribly overpowering smell.

"Gah! What's that awful stench?" the Dude said loud enough that it could be heard by Habib, the shopkeeper,

"Did someone slaughter a goat in here? No seriously, I want to know."

"Hurry up and buy something! And come again, please." Habib addressed the Dude. Several customers looked awkwardly at the man with an uncomfortable trench coat carrying a dirty shovel in the store. Habib noticed it as well but did not care, as the only thing he cared about was making money. Little did Habib know, the Dude had no money and wasn't going to leave the Lucky Ganesh unless he had his milk for the Bitch. Around the back was where the milk was kept. That's where the Dude went, and lo and behold, stood a carton of goat milk. The last one, in fact, as the Dude grabbed it and smiled.

"Heha! Too easy. Now, can I make sure he lets me go with a self-imposed discount?"

There was already a long line of customers trying to buy their groceries. Waiting would simply take too damn long for the Dude's tastes. He had other errands to do so he could enjoy the simple pleasure of smoking crack and guzzling down beer with his newly made "friends" at his workplace. He took one glance at the line and said to himself,

"Yeah, no."

The Dude decided to make a beeline for the door. He was only a step from successfully stealing the milk until a sudden full-sized barrier dropped down in front of the door. The Dude smacked into it and fell on the dirty store floor as Habib left the register with a baseball bat in his hands.

"You will pay! Preferably with your wallet, please." Luckily, the Dude was still in his youth and quickly got up from the floor and abandoned the carton of milk. Both hands were on his shovel as Habib tried to swing his baseball bat. It went wide as the Dude ducked and countered with an immensely powerful swing of his own. The head of the shovel met with Habib's face with enough force to completely disconnect it from Habib's body. Quarts of blood gushed out of the hole on Habib's neck as his head bounced merrily around in the Lucky Ganesh.

"He's killing everyone! It's the apocalypse!" One terrified customer said and tried to flee from the Lucky Ganesh. Unfortunately, it was on lockdown. Fortunately, the way to the register was opened up, allowing the Dude to do whatever he pleased behind the counter. He stroked his goatee and searched Habib's body for a key to register.

"Let's just hope this isn't the key to the vegetable section." The Dude went behind the counter with high expectations. He opened up the register and found four-hundred dollars inside. All of the money was greedily pocketed. The Dude looked up at the customers, practically shitting their pants over what they just saw.

"Are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna get out of here like I am now that everything is on the house?"

A small button was felt and pressed by the Dude's sweaty hand as the exit opened up. The customers shrugged and started to help themselves to the various groceries in the store. As the Dude turned around, he saw the carton of milk in ruins. Its contents spilled out on the floor and made the store smell even worse.

"Fuck."

Not much else could be done as the Dude left the Lucky Ganesh with his blood-stained shovel as well as the baseball bat from Habib. Everybody nearby was fleeing in terror from what they had heard and saw go down in the Lucky Ganesh. Just as he stepped onto the main road, the Dude heard someone call for him,

"Wait, boy!"

The Dude turned around and saw a short, bald, overweight man in a yellow hunting jacket speak to him. His mouth was missing at least three teeth, and all of them were a visible shade of yellow.

"Boy, I heard what was going on in there, and judging from how you look…"

The Dude's heart started to race in fear of getting arrested or capped.

"…I wanna say, great job!"

"Fair enough," the Dude said. Just as he was about to turn around to head towards work, the man in the suit spoke again,

"You know, I can use someone like you! Someone's not afraid of getting their hands dirty and getting straight to point! How would you like to come and work with me as Paradise Pest Police? It pays well, is questionably legal, and a hell of a lot of fun!"

The Dude was confused.

"And by "Paradise Pest Police," you of course mean-"

"Gettin' rid of all of this city's vermin problems! Well, maybe most of them. But my point still stands. I'm giving you the opportunity of a lifetime to use that bloodlust of yours to do this city a whole lot of good!"

"Sounds completely legal and promising to me," the Dude said sarcastically.

"I'm warning you; you're missing out if you turn your hide around and leave!" announced the man. He walked back to his truck parked around the corner as the Dude contemplated the situation. Getting to kill "pests" did sound a lot more fun than working with video games to him, and it could probably pay a lot more. The Dude followed closely behind the man to a candy-apple-red pickup truck stocked with a dozen wooden crates. He crawled into the passenger seat and buckled up.

"I knew you had the smarts!" The man said as he started up the car.

"But first, I needs to train you in this line of work." He drove the truck towards the outskirts of Paradise where he had the perfect set up for new recruits like the Postal Dude.


	2. Chapter Two: Acquaintanceship

The Postal Dude was taking a free ride in the suspicious man's truck towards the outside deserts of Paradise. He had a feeling that whatever was inside the crates in the back of the truck wasn't typical exterminator equipment. In any case, the Postal Dude kept quiet as he sat on the leather seats and rolled down the window to get rid of the scent of tobacco and semen present in the truck. There were a couple empty beer bottles and torn magazines on at his feet, which he tried his best to ignore. The man had a grin on his face, like a he had just got a winning lotto ticket. Something was definitely not right.

"So! Tell me about yourself before we get there. What's your name, boy?"

"What's yours first, since you're the one who made the advance and the one running this business?" the Dude reversed.

"Mah name's Larry Chakawitz! Proud founder of the Paradise Pest Police! Now, what's yours?"

"Well, now that I know who I need to namedrop in case the worst possible thing happens, just call me "Dude" and leave it at that. Fits me perfectly in this God-forsaken world."

Larry seemed content with the reply. The Postal Dude moved on to a different, more important topic.

"Don't the cops have any problem with you? You did say this was "questionably legal" back there."

Larry didn't say anything and continued to drive his pickup truck out of Paradise and now into the merciless desert. Thirty minutes later after going off the road for a bit, the car stopped, and Larry got out. The two men were what appeared to be a ghetto shooting range with wooden stands, a couple brown crates, and a few oddly-shaped cacti. Two decent shacks were at the sides of the sight, with an ugly door and broken windows.

"Well, we're here! Get out here and I'll train you right, boy!" Larry called out as the Dude looked at the back of the truck. He swore he saw something moving on the bottom…

"I still didn't get an answer."

"Well, answer's a coming. Help me unload some of this stuff, will ya?" Larry ordered as the two men used all their might to lift one of the crates out of the truck and lowered it onto the desert floor. Larry squatted and opened up the crate to reveal several heavy-duty military firearms and ammunition. The Dude's eyes widened and his eyebrows were raised in admiration.

"I figured something like this was involved when you brought up questionably legal pest control. Now that I think about it, where the hell are the other employees?"

Larry looked a bit uncomfortable.

"Well now, that's the thing. You see, the mayor of this town wants me to get rid of the town's "pest" problems. The main problem is; the police don't exactly agree with my methods I employ. I tried to branch out with other good folk like you, but all of them got thrown into the slammer. And now, well, you're the only helpin' hand I got. Luckily, a couple of them accept bribes, which is why I can get into some parts of the town with my truck here. If they ever found out about the mayor and I, well, you know what would happen." Larry explained. Suddenly the Dude completely understood him.

"Figures how the cops can't do what they're supposed to, yet they're the first ones to be up in arms when some vigilantes move in and do their jobs better." The Dude reached down to the crates and started to pull out a gun.

"The way I see it, they should be showin' us some respect for making an actual difference! And you'll be a part of that soon enough; you ever use a gun like this before?" Larry asked the Dude, who was now gripping an M16 assault rifle. The Dude's face beamed with happiness beyond measure like he crossed paths with a freshly loaded crack pipe.

"No, but I'm ready to go to class!"

"That's the spirit, boy! Let's get you acquainted with what you'll be workin' with." Larry said as he went to the back of his truck and grabbed hold of what appeared to be a squirming, man-sized bag from underneath the bundle of weapons.

"Yeah, see right here, this fella been eatin' good. Give him his daily dose of lead." Larry chatted as he sauntered over to a cactus and unzipped the bag to reveal a man with tasteless and cheap clothing with a big beanie hat almost falling off his face. He had a build similar to the Postal Dude but had a much uglier face.

"Gnargh! I'll kill you!" the man cried in anger as he fell limp to the ground. His legs were broken as to not escape, as Larry went back to the truck to get some rope to turn the man into a target for the Dude. Meanwhile, the Dude twisted his gun around to get a better look at it. It was almost entirely black and had more weight than expected to it. It felt nice to hold, but would it feel nice to shoot?

Larry came back with some high-quality rope and struggled to prop up the wounded man against the cactus, but managed to succeed in the long run. The man's arms were stretched out and his back against the prickly cactus, nearly bawling his eyes out.

"This scumbag and his friends are what are wrong with Paradise. They funnel in all these damn drugs and make everybody else suffer! Then they try to harass the good folk, thinking they can do whatever you want! Well, I for one will not stand for this! Someones gonna have to clean up this city, and it's gonna be you-I mean, us!" Larry spat as the tied up man struggled against the cactus. The Postal Dude frowned slightly, realizing he belonged to the group of people Larry Chakawitz wanted to eradicate from Paradise thanks to his crack addiction. But if he could keep the crack pipes belonging to him to a low-profile, everything could be all right for him.

"Well, what are you waitin' for? Give that trigger a tight pull!"

The Dude shrugged and emptied the entire clip into the man, easily killing him. All that remained was a gruesomely shot-up corpse against a cactus. Even though it felt incredibly cheap to kill a defenseless man, the Dude felt no remorse. The thrill of killing someone by emptying an entire magazine worth of bullets into them was more than enough to reel in the Dude. Now he had a fair reason to go on a killing spree; taking out all his frustration and pent-up disgust on this world by being a mercenary.

"Now, don't that feel good? Here, I got a couple more for you to try out!" Larry applauded as he got another crate and another body from his truck and set it up. It was a woman with trashy "wannabe" gangster clothing with a face that showed signs of serious meth use. This time, Larry got a SPAS-12 shotgun and chucked it to the Dude. This is what a heavy gun felt like.

"Please! Don't kill me! Don't kill me! I promise I won't do it again!" The woman whined as she was propped up against another cactus.

"Sometimes you gotta get in close for things like this. That SPAS-12 is gonna do the job."

The Postal Dude cracked his neck via tilting before realizing he was going to like this job a lot. The last thing the woman heard before being reduced to a bloody mess?

"This is gonna be sweet!"


	3. Chapter Three: First Day on the Job

The morning was spent with the Postal Dude and Larry Chakawitz "testing" the weapons out in the desert on hapless citizens, before running out of human targets and devoting their attention to some of the surrounding cacti. With each pull of a trigger, a loud "Bang!" ensued with a hunk of cactus being knocked to the sand. Taking time off to go shooting was the life for the Dude. Soon he put that fervor to a "good" use of wiping out druggies by the dozen. By the time the Postal Dude had ejected the last empty shell of a sniper rifle, virtually all the cacti were gone. Little more stood in front of the Postal Dude than the smoke coming off his barrel and a bunch of ruined cacti.

"Boy, you're gonna be the best one I ever had! You ready to get started? I got a tip from a friend o' mine about a newly set-up meth shack in the bad part of Paradise. Should be easy pickings. And fun. Each bastard you put out of their misery is another good thing the mayor wants to hear." Larry said ecstatically.

"Won't the cops hear a loud fucking gun go off and start investigating?" the Dude reasoned, as doing something like that in broad daylight none the less was a recipe for disaster.

"They will. But they can't teleport! Just get in, kill 'em all, and get out. That is, if they will respond. You know them cops ain't gonna come out unless it's something major. This to them isn't all that major. Oh, you know what would be good here?"

"Signing a petition to make the cops do their job so I can continue not listening to deals proposed by a wanted man in the desert?" the Dude said sarcastically.

"Heh, you're funny! But I was thinking, what if you could take out the shack as well as the druggies? And for that, you'll need something extra. Got some time to spare before we head out?" Larry proposed, hardly containing his excitement.

"If it means I don't have to listen to you talk anymore, then yes."

Larry Chakawitz walked to one of the shacks nearby as the Postal Dude walked closely behind him. Inside the shack was hardly anything impressive, except for a strangely placed rug off in the corner. The rug was moved to reveal a small trapdoor that led underground to a dimly light cellar with teal containers. One of the containers had a vast rocket launcher on top of it. It was nearly as tall as the Postal Dude, and about half as wide. It was painted crappy beige.

"This right here is what'll do the trick. Can you carry it for me? I need to hide my cargo down here anyway. I can teach you how to fire it real quick, also."

"Glad to see my tax dollars haven't gone to waste."

The Dude picked up the rocket launcher, and to his surprise, was lightweight, for a weapon like this. With great difficulty, he climbed up the ladder out of the cellar and back to the scorching deserts of Arizona. He spat in disgust; his loogie kicking up previously undisturbed dust on where it landed. Outside, he put the rocket launcher down to take a piss. Not just any piss though, this was a massive piss. The Dude walked over to one of the people he shot up, particularly the one demolished by the shotgun. He then unzipped his pants and felt a seemingly infinite trail of urine be drained out of his bladder.

"Ohhhh, ho ho ho, yeah."

The Postal Dude pissed for a full thirty seconds on the corpse; the piss soon trailing off the corpse and pooling onto the ground, swelling evermore. He took a step back to make sure his shoes did not get sodden as he finally finished his piss. Some of the piss had begun to vaporize from the extreme heat in the desert, and the surrounding area stunk like the Lucky Ganesh. When the Dude finished, he picked up the rocket launcher again as Larry finished stashing his weapons.

"Gimme that and I'll show how to use this thing. Now, pay close attention here. Just hold down the trigger, give it time to build, and…" Larry explained, as a computer inside the rocket launcher said,

"C.T ROCKET ACTIVATED."

"…let go and fire!" Larry demonstrated, not realizing he was pointing it towards the shack containing his weapons. The rocket was fired straight towards the shack, and when it hit, reduced the shack to a grand pile of timber. The Postal Dude chuckled at the disaster that was just created due to Larry Chakawitz's poor planning,

"Hmm, looks like there's no malfunction here!"

Larry couldn't muster up anything to say to cover his embarrassment as he threw the rocket down and went to the truck.

"Forgot to check if it was loaded. There're more rockets underground but no way am I gonna dig through that shit right now. We got work to do. And time is money!"

And with that, the two men abandoned the desert and went back to Paradise after a long ride. They stopped at the outskirts of Paradise, where Larry quickly devised a plan B.

"Well, I'm sure you don't need no guns to deal with this, anyway. I think that baseball bat and your intuition will be enough here."

"Yeah, and what is this place gonna look like, exactly?" the Dude questioned; his hand on the truck door, about to leave.

"It's built out of sheet metal and they painted it a yellow-green. Towards the ghetto part of Paradise. Not a lot of people. Make sure you clear it out as well as anybody who gives you trouble. You got that? Now get out and make me proud, boy! I'll stay head back to clean up the mess I made."

The Dude got out of the truck and Larry Chakawitz sped off back to the desert.

"Oh great, sending me alone to try to deal with some of the bad folk in the bad part of town. Nothing good is gonna happen…for them!" he chuckled. That is when the Postal Dude realized he still had his shovel and Habib's baseball bat at his disposal. Some good old-fashioned beatings with blunt objects should be more than enough for this. If worse came to worse, he still had his crack pipe with some crack still inside it to give him a quick pick-me-up.

The Postal Dude made his way towards the run-down part of Paradise, Arizona. It was teeming with lowlifes and nearly everything undesirable. The police station nearby, but the cops weren't going to be helping the Dude. This was yet another thing he was going to do by himself, as the Bitch couldn't squeeze out the door, and Larry Chakawitz abandoned him to avoid the police altogether. Whatever; there was stuff to do. The Postal Dude walked around for a bit on his way to the dangerous part of Paradise, keeping an eye out for anything yellow-green structures. He found a homeless man in dirty rags and horrendous sores on his face. He looked like one of the druggies Larry talked about. The Dude decided to sweet-talk him to get some more information.

"Hey buddy, I need my fix. Any place nearby where I can go to pick it up?"

The homeless man looked at the Postal Dude with droopy eyelids and spoke with an incredibly thick Mexican accent,

"Si, amigo, si." He pointed towards an alleyway off to the corner that lead to what would be the meth shack.

"Thanks," the Dude thanked as he ran off towards the meth shack. It didn't take much time to locate the meth shack. It was painted a vomit-inducing yellow-green, built out of the lowest quality materials, and had a cancer-inducing funk radiating from the center. This was the meth shack Larry Chakawitz talked about. Outside the shack were two homeless people smoking cigarettes with a dirty and heavily worn t-shirt and sweatpants. One of them was clutching a carton of milk as well. The Postal Dude brandished the baseball bat and approached the people.

"Looks like we got ourselves a party in the making here!" he said while coughing spastically from the meth fumes. He raised his baseball bat and tested it in his palm repeatedly. The meth people started to get scared.

"And nobody invited me!"

Without wasting any more time, the Postal Dude brought the baseball bat down on the milk-carrying man, killing the hapless soul instantly. The other one dropped the cigarette and raised her arms high in the air to let out a terrified shriek.

"Aiiee! Run for your-"

The Dude swung the bat right to left at her head, knocking it off and sending the head roughly fifty feet in the other direction. One person came out of the shack to investigate the ruckus. He had little more than a pair of underwear on with a heavily grayed and long beard with equally grayed and shaggy hair. He had about six teeth in his mouth, all yellow and spacious between each other.

"Now, whut in da goddamned hell is- WHADDA FUCK ARE YOU?!" The man screamed, clearly lost in a state of delusion from too much meth. A low, animalistic growl came from his throat to fully get the Dude's attention as he picked up the goat milk. He was armed with a brittle yet sharp piece of glass to shank people with as he started to lunge for the Postal Dude. In response, the Dude unzipped his pants and started to piss right in the man's mouth thanks to his genetically enhanced bladder. A warm stream of piss continuously splashed on the man's face and into his mouth.

"YOU SICK BASTARD! I'LL-" The man howled, but soon his body started to reject the urine in his mouth. He stopped dead in his tracks and was hunched over with his hands on his stomach, dropping the shank in the process, as the Dude continued to urinate. The next thing that happened was a sickening orange flow of stomach acid and undigested vegetables gushing out of the man's mouth in response to sucking down the Postal Dude's urine. A nicely sized puddle was made from where the man vomited, only stopping after six seconds of non-stop puking and pissing. With each man's fluids drained, the crazy man went back to his murderous intentions. By the time he recovered, the Dude had picked up the man's shank… and jammed it into the man's throat.

"Sorry, but apparently I'm feeling a little psychotic this morning."

The Postal Dude cracked the comment before started to cough and sputter from the fumes of the meth brewing in the lab. He was out of ammunition for his Deagle, and there wasn't anything he could do to start an explosion. So to finish the job, the Dude wandered off and found a half-empty canister of gasoline stashed underneath a set of rotting wooden stairs.

"Good thing I still have my matches!" The Dude said aloud to nobody as he found a small container of blue-tipped matches in his pants. The Dude's mom always taught him never to play with matches, but this is where matches come in handy.

The gas can's contents were spilled around the meth shack and on the bodies evenly. Once the gasoline ran out, the can was chucked into the shack. A single match was lit and chucked towards the gasoline-soaked shack. The flames from the match erupted into an all-out inferno, followed by the meth shack turning into a grandiose fireball. The scent of burning methamphetamine and flesh combined into what one would imagine as a horrifyingly toxic smell. Such a scent was not picked up from the Dude's nostrils.

"Say, that actually smells pretty good," he commented on his newly made firework display in action. Screams of terrified civilians could be heard in the distance over the flames. A thick, putrid, burning smog rose above the fire and started to spread out over the general vicinity of the district. The Postal Dude's errand was done.

"Next: time to get paid! But first, I should probably check in on Larry. Hopefully, he didn't hop the border or into a grave."

The Dude went back to where Larry dropped him off and saw his distinct truck waiting for him. He cautiously approached, reeking of industrial grade chemicals. A child-like voice of glee squeaked from the inside of the truck.

"Woo! I can smell ya from over here! I also saw that smoke signal ya made for me out of 'em. Great work! The mayor's gonna be pleased!" Larry cheered on, congratulating the Postal Dude's work.

"So, when am I gonna get some cash going my way?" He asked, starting to get angry with Larry's overly happy personality.

"Don't you worry about that! I'll tell the mayor about what we did and fix you up a nice cut. It'll take 'til Tuesday, though, but then I'll get you some more work cut out as well as money all in a single day! Can ya hang on 'til then?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." the Dude said, obviously annoyed. Larry Chakawitz drove off into the desert as the Postal Dude went off to finish what he was instructed to by the Bitch's list. Next stop was getting his actual paycheck from Running With Scissors: the video game company that caused him to relocate to Paradise in the first place. It wasn't that far of a walk, but he noted a group of video game protestors standing outside the building. All of them had picket signs and chanted,

"Games are bad! They make you mad! Games are bad! They make you mad!"

Somehow, they didn't care for the Dude walking right into Running With Scissors. Now inside the building, he went to Vince Desi's office to pick up his paycheck. Behind the desk sat Vince Desi, the executive of Running With Scissors.

"Nothing personal man, but you're fired."

The Dude was greatly confused,

"But I just started yesterday!" Vince Desi only replied with a hearty laugh back at the Dude as the Dude picked up his paycheck for one-hundred dollars. As he left Vince's office in disgust, he saw the horde of video game protestors pouring into the building, armed with guns.

"Crap. Good thing there's always a backdoor."

The Dude went out the back way as quickly as possible, hearing gunshots ringing above him. Thankfully, none of the protestors seemed to have known there was an alternate route to the building, so the Dude got out scot free. It was still quite nerve-wracking for the Dude; dealing with drugged homeless people with sharp glass is one thing, but dealing with ignorant video game protestors armed with guns was something else.

Now the Postal Dude was in Chicken Queen Estates with his paycheck. The only thing left to do was to head to Paradise's Fee of America to cash it for what it was worth. With great haste the Dude made his way to the Fee of America unbothered. As he arrived, there was a terribly long line of people. Since there was a good amount of bank guards present, and he was almost done, he decided to wait it out. Finally, it was the Dude's turn.

"Hi there. I'm here to cash this pitiful excuse for a paycheck."

"All right. Hand it, over and we'll just update your account and…done!" spoke the teller. A decently thick wad of cash was handed to the Dude.

"Thanks."

Just as the Dude thanked the teller, a squad of four bank robbers entered with shotguns. One of them squeezed off a warning shot onto the nearby wall.

"This is a stick-up! Don't move any nobody gets hurt!"

A firefight between the robbers and the security officers erupted as the Dude scrambled out of the door. A violent cacophony was taking place back inside the bank, where the Dude bumped into a fifth bank robber carrying something on his back.

"Freeze! Give me your money!" the robber ordered as he pulled out an automatic pistol.

"Oh, fine…" the Dude whined, pretending to get out some money. But he didn't get out money. He got out his Deagle pistol and squeezed the trigger, capping the robber right in the heart. The robber stiffly fell backwards onto the bag on his back, making an ear-piercing clanking noise. The Dude laughed as he made his way back home to his trailer just as the sun was going down.

"Honey, I'm home!"

"Did you go by work?" the Bitch said, still reading the day's newspaper.

"Yeah, apparently I'm on, uh… sabbatical, or something," the Dude tried to explain, not hinting his connections to Larry Chakawitz.

"Well, good. Maybe you could get a few more things done for me!"

"I'mma do a few things to you…"

"What was that?!" yelled the Bitch.

"Uh, nothing dear," the Dude said as he put the now grossly warm carton of milk into the refrigerator. The Bitch turned around to see what the Dude was doing.

"Enjoy your milk," the Dude concluded as he went off to bed. The Bitch smiled with her repulsive lips at the questionably fresh goat milk in the refrigerator. Just before the Dude hit the hay, he toked up on his crack pipe to prepare him for tomorrow.


	4. Chapter Four: Negotiation

Today was Tuesday; the only day that could be considered worse than Monday. The Dude woke up much better than he did Monday and felt content with himself. That was, until he saw the list of errands on the refrigerator.

"I told you that you could do a few more things for me since you won't be going to work for a while, didn't I? Now get out there!" the Bitch bitched at the Postal Dude. His mouth was halfway open as he groaned and got dressed to go out into Paradise. Just before going outside, he looked at the counter and saw a dark-green book and clipboard that needed to be taken with him this time. It was a petition to make whiney congressmen play violent video games and the smashing hit book _Catch her in the Rye_. The petition needed to be signed by enough people as soon as possible, and the book needed to be returned to the library, lest the Postal Dude suffer a hefty fine and humiliation.

"All right, let's see here: Gotta sign this petition and gotta return the stupid book the Bitch can't even read. Maybe I can swing over to the mall to pick up a copy of _What I'm Talkin' Bout_. Hmm, it's been a while since I've confessed. Hope I can remember everything!" The Dude meditated on his list of errands to do. That's when he realized something,

"Oh, what the hell am I doing being the Bitch's bitch? I'd better go see Larry. Good thing I still have some change from the Lucky Ganesh in case he's gonna pay me in stuffed raccoon carcasses."

So, with his priorities straightened out, the Postal Dude decided to go out of town to find Larry Chakawitz and discuss payment. The neighboring sound of the marching band distracted the Postal Dude for a little while. He stood alongside several other interested bystanders to listen to the band play.

"You know, as crazy as this may sound, this is relaxing," said the Dude to one guy, who only nodded in dumb approval.

"By the way, would you please sign my petition?" The man turned and looked at the Dude's petition with a curious look on his face. After several seconds of deep pondering on whether or not to sign, he agreed. With the signature added, a member of the Taliban jumped out of the bushes armed with dynamite strapped to his chest. He ran into the center of the marching band and exploded. Every member of the marching band died in a fiery, violent, loud death. Inside the Postal Dude, a single tear was shed from a scene so beautiful as all other bystanders fled in panic.

The Dude went to the outskirts of Paradise, bugging random people to sign his petition along the way. He had gathered seven out of the eight signatures needed before the petition could be submitted. The last one would hopefully be Larry Chakawitz so two birds could be killed with one stone.

There stood Larry's truck, parked off in the distance, doing who knows what. The Postal Dude ran up with the harmless intentions of asking him if he could sign his petition. He knocked on the driver side of the window lightly, trying not to disturb him too much. Larry twisted his head around after looking down at his feet with his left arm twitching slightly. His face was redder than a ripe tomato.

"Gah! The fuck you doin' here!? Don't you know of privacy, mister?!" Larry barked at the Dude.

"This isn't what I'd call private. Now, if I remember correctly, we had a deal, remember?"

Larry Chakawitz soon came to his senses.

"Oh, is that right? Just a second," Larry said before disappearing deeper into his truck. When he surfaced again, he had a generous wad of bills.

"'Ere you go. Hope that helps," Larry said as he peeled off a few bills with his thumb and handed them to the Dude. A total of one-hundred and fifty dollars was given to the Dude for his reward. It wasn't something he could argue against. The Dude pocketed the money and held up his clipboard,

"Great. Can you sign my petition?"

"No way, you friggin' pinko!" Larry hissed at the Dude. The Dude lowered his clipboard and raised an eyebrow in curious disgust. Then, the Dude asked once more,

"Look, just sign my stupid petition. I got stuff to do."

Larry thought about it with empty eyes before agreeing.

"Okay, I guess that sounds pretty good," said Larry as he fidgeted for a pen and signed the petition. "Now, maybe you could do a favor for me since I did you a favor. Now, this-"

The Postal Dude grew disgusted upon hearing the word "favor" again. He had enough of doing favors for people outside of signing the petition. That's when the Dude suddenly the boldest idea he ever had,

"Woah, now, you don't wanna be talking about this business right here. Someone could be listening. If only we were at a much more remote, quiet, place that was much farther away from Paradise than from where we are…"

"Oh shit! I forgot! Okay, let's get to my station, shall we?" Larry offered as he realized how dangerous it was out here. The Dude climbed into the truck, and Larry Chakawitz drove off towards the desert hideout. When they got there, the Dude got out and took a long, relaxing, sophisticated piss onto the sand. Larry got out as well and called out from the other side of the car,

"Let's get straight to business, shall we? The mayor was pleased with that fireball you made in Paradise, and personally told me there's gonna be a big ass crowd of those degenerates outside the mall to protest. I dunno why, probably for food or somthin'. But none of 'em deserve it. They'll all waste it on heroin and whatnot. I figure with that big of a crowd, the popo's gonna come down and try to organize it. So, I'm thinking as well as you, why not just kill 'em all? Couldn't find a reason against it, and scrounged up some rockets for ya down under."

The Postal Dude's piss had concluded after Larry Chakawitz's long plan. He zipped up and sauntered towards the front of the truck.

"Sounds like fun," the Dude confessed. "But before I consider it, I want to ask something from you. It means a lot to me. Like, A LOT."

Larry grew puzzled.

"Like what, exactly? You ain't a cop, are you?" Larry asked, scared of getting the worst possible result from his shady career.

"It's about my wife. The only name that suits her is "Bitch." She's the one sending me out on errands every-fucking-day because her fat ass can't allow her to be out here for more than three seconds without keeling over from a heart attack. I've had enough of her, and I want you to promise that after this, you can hook me up with something guaranteed to wipe her ugly face off this planet for good."

Larry looked on with a shocked, blank look on his face.

"Uh, I dunno, partner. She ain't one of them, is she? I don't think-"

"Uh-uh. Don't you give me that crap again. I want her dead. D-E-A-D. I want her funeral to come quickly in a closed casket. Only then can I do what I damn well please. Maybe start again from a clean slate and be prosperous."

Larry Chakawitz looked down and thought about it hard. He cocked his head up and swallowed his bigoted pride,

"All right, fine. But you're gonna do what I want first, ya hear me? Just wait there so I can hook you up."

Larry went towards where the weapons shack once stood and went underground to fetch the Dude his rocket launcher. The Dude waited out in the blistering hot weather and thought back to what he said. He had known his wife for far too long, and almost every waking moment of it was nothing but suffering. But the question remained: after the Bitch died, then what? The Dude didn't know what he would do in the long run once the Bitch bit the dust. Maybe the prospect of blowing up his trailer with the Bitch trapped inside wasn't the best bet.

"All right! Have fun and remember to fire it like this!" Larry interrupted as he came back to the car with the rocket launcher and pointing it right at the Dude. As Larry approached, the Dude made up his mind once and for all as he asked once more,

"We still have a deal after I'm done with this, right?"

"Oh, we sures do! I think they're protesting right now, so we better hurry up."

Larry dumped the rocket launcher in the back of his truck as the Postal Dude got back into the passenger seat. The two men drove back to Paradise the same way they came from. The Dude had all the firepower he needed to take care of today's "errand." When the truck stopped, the Dude got out and picked up the rocket launcher to carry on his shoulders. Thankfully, he wasn't far away from the mall, but there would most likely be cops on duty. Any cop that saw the Dude like this would jeopardize the whole operation. Just to be safe, he took a longer route to the main entrance of the mall, where nobody paid enough attention to call for the law, although not that they would after seeing the type of heat the Postal Dude was packing.

"This system has been corrupt for too long! We demand for it to take change and finally take appropriate action!" a faint voice off the distance reached the Dude's ears. It was the protest Larry talked about, no doubt about it. Eager to put his rocket launcher to "good" use, the Dude took it off his shoulders and held it normally after cracking his neck.

"We've been quiet, and we demand we let ourselves finally be heard!" said another protester; the voices growing louder to the Postal Dude. He arrived at the location to see a group of twenty or so homeless people stand in front of the Paradise Mall with picket signs. Two patrol cars were parked to the sides, and four police officers were standing on the steps, preventing the situation from being overwhelming. With an internal grin, the Dude held down the trigger on the rocket launcher, charging up the rocket. When the rocket was fully charged, the internal computer spoke up,

"C.T ROCKET ACTIVATED."

The loud, abnormal computer voice quickly silenced the jeer of the protest group. All of the homeless people turned around to see the Dude as well. Some of them dropped their picket signs in horror, while others gazed on with an angry look on their face. The police officers present saw and heard the spectacle and drew their pistols at the Dude.

"Drop your weapon and get on the ground, or we'll shoot! We're not going to ask you again!" the cop ordered. The Dude only heard it as a form of encouragement to ravage the protest.

"I don't think so," said the Dude coldly.

The trigger was released, and a missile the size of his forearm was shot out towards the group, making industrial beeping sounds and leaving behind a thick trail of white smoke. The protest group looked their death straight on as the rocket collided with the closest member to the Postal Dude. All that happened next was a deafening explosion that spawned a shower of blood, smoke, and charred dirt. The explosion was big enough to annihilate the protest group completely, so the Dude knew there would be no survivors from the explosion. The smoke screen obscured the police officer's vision and threw them off their feet, giving the Dude time to escape. He was a long way from the mall as he ran as fast as his legs could allow with a rocket launcher tacked on. A couple of twists and turns later, the Dude hid himself in the interiors of a nearby gas station. The one spot that would be the most obvious place to look was skipped completely as he heard the buzzing radios and frantic footsteps of the police officers go by him completely.

"Hm hm. Mission accomplished," whispered the Dude under his own breath. After what he estimated to be five minutes, he stepped out into the open and went back to the outskirts of Paradise. Much to his delight, Larry's vehicle was parked out on the road.

"Jobs done," the Dude said as he dropped the rocket launcher in the truck. "Now, it's time for your end of the deal."

"Yeah, I heard that. The explosion, I meant. Let's get out of here before the popo comes and I have to pin the thing on you." Larry started up his car as the Postal Dude got back in to get more gear. Once more the Dude thought about what he would do once his wife was dead, and that is where he found some inspiration,

"Compared to the other employees you've had, how am I stacking up?"

"Oh, you? Well, you're probably the best damn one I've had. I mean, you ain't dead or incarcerated yet, so that's a good sign. Plus, I believe you got the highest body count so far. Them protests ain't short on numbers, and I don't let anybody use my rocket launcher, now. Why you ask?"

"I want her and my trailer gone. I can hardly stand living in that shithole without tearing my own head off. Thing is, with my trailer up in smoke, I got nowhere to go. That's why I'm asking if you could take me with you. Skip Paradise when the heat gets too much and move on, clean up this State one scumbag at a time, have a good night out with cold drinks and women, and what not. If your friend can keep up the cash and information flowing, I'll gladly continue to do this."

Larry's heart felt touched by the Postal Dude. He never thought one of his few employees cared so much about this. Larry coughed when trying to speak up until his throat was clear enough to express his feelings,

"You got a damn fine point there, boy. I'm not holding any guarantees, though. Don't think I've completely gave up on ya."

"I just hope you'll make the right decision here," the Dude replied as he sat back in his chair for the ride.


	5. Chapter Five: C U Next Tuesday

The Postal Dude and Larry Chakawitz were back in the deserts outside of Paradise where the Dude was getting all he needed to kill his wife. The trailer would also go, to make the Dude's slate purer. He still had his dog, Champ, and his handy crack pipe that he had to hide from Larry, so it wouldn't be a completely new beginning. Either way, it would all fall together soon as Larry pulled up to his trademarked spot in the desert. It was still a wonder that the police didn't crack down on this location yet.

"So, how ya gonna do it? Got lotsa ways to bring down wives. Well, maybe you'll like another boom. That never fails to satisfy, ya know?" Larry offered to the Dude.

"As long as my hands don't blow off just by touching it and it can go off when I want it to," the Dude said, talking about plastic explosives. Larry's lips spread to the corners of his mouth in delight.

"A good choice, son! 'Bout time I get to break the ol' remote detonator! Walk with me so you can get a feel for this."

The two of them went underground once more to the stockpile of weapons. Larry got on his knees and started to dig through one of the weapon containers, muttering something under his breath and sweating profusely. Eventually he pulled out a small case with some heavily-faded yellow letters and numbers on it. The case cracked open to reveal six packs of C4 with a single detonator in the middle. Larry rubbed his chubby hands together in childlike glee.

"You know howdda do this, right?"

"You sure this stuff didn't go flat?" the Dude questioned. Who knows how long it's been down there, but he didn't really know if plastic explosives could go flat like soda. Then again, the explosives didn't go flat, it was a wonder that all these weapons didn't go kaboom after Larry's rocket mishap on Monday.

"All right! That should do it real good, yeah..." Larry said as he handed each bundle of C4 to the Dude until he was left with the detonator, "Just drop these wherever y'all want and push this red button to make some fireworks, he he he! Make sure nothin' don't bump that button before you plant 'em, or else it'll be all over."

"You better make sure this stuff works, Larry. I'm not in the mood of being made into a jackass if this fails," the Dude expressed. With a trench coat full of C4 and the detonator as well, the Dude started to climb out of the stockade to the unforgiving desert. Larry Chakawitz followed suit. The Dude mentally slapped himself and turned around to ask one more favor from Larry,

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to have some spare ammo for my pistol, would you? I could always use some more direct protection that won't blow my balls off up close."

"Oh, some extra ammo," Larry said while wheezing from the desert air, "I can give you it; what gun are ya packin'?

The Dude whipped out his Deagle pistol, showing a moderate sign of use and tarnish to contradict its shiny silver coloring.

"Why didn't ya ever tell me you was a proud bearer of the Hollywood Handcannon? I knew we had great chemistry!" Larry pulled out his own Deagle pistol, looking almost exactly like the one the Dude carried, but much more shiny. He ejected the magazine and handed it to the Dude with two other magazines in his pocket.

"Looks like we got the same gun, so the extra ammo's convenient. That ought'a hold you for today. You gonna kill that bitch o' yours right away, or should we celebrate early and pick up some good eatin's?" Larry asked the Dude, who was now pleased with the amount of weaponry he had for himself.

"I may as well finish the rest of the crap she sent me to do, just to make it whole. By the time I'm done with that it'll be nighttime, so it'll be better for making some extra noise."

"I get your drift, sir. Maybe we can hit the road together later tonight once it's all done and done. Eh, it'll all be good. I'mma go get some gas after I drop you off in the meantime and inform my friend that we're moving up. Guess I'll meet you back outside of Paradise tonight and we can get this ball rollin' the way it's meant to."

The Postal Dude was driven back to Paradise with enough firepower to keep him alive for at least today, knowing the city. He decided to go to the mall to pick up a copy of '_What I'm Talkin' Bout_ before all of them were gone. Luckily for him, the cops that were at the mall had moved somewhere else. The mess of meat made from the Dude's rocket launcher still remained, as a reminder of the nature of his new lifestyle would be soon enough.

Inside the mall was invaluable air-conditioning, instantly soothing the Dude's skin and mind. He let off a relieved sigh as the drastic drop of temperature greeted him. But this wasn't the time for standing around and relishing in the cool air, this was a time to cross off one of his errands. The Dude wound up in the center of the mall where stood a long line waiting to get a signed copy of _What I'm Talkin' Bout_ from none other than the author himself, Gary Coleman. The Dude took his place at the back of the line and waited patiently for it to be his turn. There were several armed bodyguards next to Gary Coleman, each of them looking coldly forward and eager to attack if Gary was endangered.

"Next!" Gary called after dealing with the eager fan in front of the Dude.

"Mister Coleman, you won't believe how happy I am to be here right now."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever you're cool, have one," Gary said as he signed a copy of _What I'm Talkin' Bout_ before handing it to the Dude.

"It's for my mother, I swear," said the Dude, unaware his sweet talk was failing him.

"Heh, sure it is," Gary said sarcastically, "but if I ever find out you are selling this on eBay, I will come over to your place and kick your narrow ass."

All seemed well, except for a sudden blare of a megaphone coming from outside the mall,

"This is the Paradise Police! Hand over the former child actor and nobody will get hurt!"

Gary Coleman walked from behind his stand closer to where the sound was coming from.

"Go back to the doughnut convention; I ain't going nowhere!" Gary rebutted. He turned pointed to his bodyguards and ordered them to step forward. The Dude knew what was gonna happen soon. As much as he wanted to stick around for the firefight, the Dude took the back way out of the mall just as gunshots were heard.

"Closest place is the library. I just hope I don't have to pay a fee for being three minutes overdue."

Next stop was the library; inside were a group of book protestors chanting endlessly "Save a tree! Burn a book! Save a tree! Burn a book!" the Dude paid no attention and made his way to the librarian's office to return the library book. He couldn't help but have a fishy feeling for those protestors as he waded his way through dozens of pedestrians to the librarian's office. Inside was once again a dreadfully long line. This time, there was a book return chute to the left of the librarian's desk for quick returns. The Dude managed to find the library book in his trench coat and chuck it into the chute.

"Too easy!" The Dude thought to himself as he started to walk out of the library. That is when he swore he smelt smoke and heard the distinct sound of a raging fire nearby…

"He's the one! He returned a book!" a book protestor called out from a higher floor, dropped the protest sign and pulling out an MP5 submachine gun to rain down steaming lead on the Dude.

"You gotta be fucking kidding."

The Dude whipped out his Deagle and shot at the book protestor. The book protestor seemed to have never fired a gun in all her life as the bullets seemed to go every but the Dude. With only three accurate shots from the Deagle, the book protestor was subdued forever. The Dude was still shaken up at being shot at, and from the amount of book protestors he saw near the entrance, that wasn't the last of them.

The scent of burning paper and wood intensified as the Dude started to sprint back the way he came as the fire spread beyond containment. Virtually every bookcase was now engulfed in golden-orange flames as the smoke built up and obscured breathing and visibility. More book protestors could be seen in the distance carrying Molotov cocktails to help spread even more fire.

"There's the one!" cried one the book protestors cried as he lit his Molotov cocktail with a lighter to throw it at the dude. With no other options, the Dude started to shoot back at the book protestor, hitting the bottle right in the center through the smoke. A terrifying amount of burning liquid was splashed all over the book protestor, who screamed in burning agony and fell over the ledge to meet his end on the floor below. The other book protestor flinched and was suddenly demoralized upon seeing his friend burn like the books they hated.

"You probably think I'm not a nice person." The Dude cracked a remark at the other book protestor, who met a much quicker and painless death with a bullet to the forehead. One of the ceiling beams dropped down and landed to the left of the Dude over the gap on the floor, creating a bridge to the other side. The Dude took the hint and made his way across the fallen beam, ever so wary to balance himself to avoid losing his footing or breaking the beam. His feet touched solid ground and gave him a path to the exit.

The Dude carved his way through the smoke and flames and the occasional book protestor until he finally exited the burning building and fell on his knees, coughing and wheezing violently. The few bystanders near the library saw the Dude and casually walked by, not trying to get involved in the burning library. The Dude cleared his lungs and managed to get back on his feet to make his way to the church. If he didn't hate this day already, he certainly did now.

Confessing his sins was the last errand on his list. Without wasting any time to get it over with, the Dude hurried on towards the church in northern Paradise. He stepped through the large doors of the church and followed the convenient signs leading to the confessional. The priest at the entrance looked at him sadly since the Dude did not drop an offering in the box. A few twists and turns inside the church later, the Dude found himself at the back of a rather unusually long line. He sighed and waited patiently for his turn like in the mall for Gary Coleman's autobiography.

The Dude was now in the confessional before a priest. He hadn't been to the confessional in a long time, so he did the best he could,

"Bless me father for I have really sinned. Really, I'm not kidding you. Big sinner. Yep."

"Did you drop an offering the box?"

"Yes."

"Then you are free to go. Next!"

Surprised with how fast his sins have been forgiven, the Dude merrily left the confessional with murderous intent. That is when he heard what sounded like a car exploding just outside the church. The Dude's face turned sour as he placed his hand right on his Deagle in case someone else was trying to murder him. Nobody tried to kill him inside the church, but when he stepped outside, he was greeted with a pack of Taliban members armed with all sorts of various guns and explosives.

"ALALALALALALALALA!" one member screeched as he started to fire without mercy to the Dude and anybody else in his way. The Dude retreated into the church and whipped out his Deagle for another engagement.

"Infidel! You will now understand!" another member screeched at the Dude as a primed grenade was chucked towards the church doors.

"Only my weapon understands me!" retorted the Dude as he stepped out from his cover to kick the grenade back at the group of Taliban. The moment it hit the ground, the grenade set off and took out four of the Taliban members. Using the shock from the grenade, the Dude ejected the magazine in his Deagle for a fresh one and finished off the last members in a grand display of finesse. Feeling at peace for now, the Dude ran out of the church grounds back to his trailer, just as the sun was setting.


	6. Chapter Six: Tension

It was now a Tuesday night as the Dude headed back to his trailer to confront the Bitch one last time. The closer he came to his trailer, the harder his heart pounded. He wasn't quite sure, but if he had to guess, it probably had to do with traveling with Larry Chakawitz for however long it took to get enough money to settle down on a house. Still, all the C4 he was carrying wasn't going to be wasted. The Dude was tired of having to do everything for the Bitch, and was readying to let it all go.

The Dude entered his trailer, where the Bitch was smoking a cigarette and reading the newspaper again. She acknowledged his presence but didn't look at him.

"Did you get Gary Coleman's autograph? I can get a small fortune for it on eBay," asked the Bitch

"Yeah, a "small" fortune…" said the Dude, realizing its real worth, "Say, aren't those things more valuable when the person's deceased?"

"Yes, why?"

"No reason. Can I borrow your computer?"

The Bitch nodded as the Dude grinned at the prospect of selling _What I'm talkin' about_ for a high value, since Gary Coleman most likely met a terrible fate from the police. He booted up the bitch's laptop and idly browsed the internet until it was time to execute the plan he had been waiting for all day.

"Hold on, honey, I gotta take a nasty shit. Gotta do it outside so I don't stink up the place," the Dude feigned, as he quickly hid a packet of C4 underneath a pillow. The Dude also pocketed his handy crack pipe; every last spec of crack was going to be needed in the long run now.

"Maybe you can do it in the dog's bowl while you're at it!" the Bitch hissed as the Dude got up with one hand on his stomach and another holding the Bitch's laptop.

"Oh, this is gonna be a big one. Gonna need this…"

The Dude opened the refrigerator and swapped out a bottle of beer for a packet of C4. He stepped outside with butterflies in his stomach as he fumbled for another piece of C4 after dropping the beer.

"Finally, that tired old whore's gonna get what she deserves," thought the Dude as he dropped another packet of C4 on the steps to the trailer. With three left, he dropped one in the shed by the trailer and placed the last two behind the trailer. The resulting explosion would be more than overkill, but he didn't want to risk the Bitch living. All the charges were set as he saw his dog, Champ, sleeping in the doghouse.

"Champ! We gotta get moving before the Bitch gets suspicious. Come on, boy!" the Dude called to his dog, who woke up and slowly got out of the doghouse.

"Good boy. Let's get to a nice, scenic view of this, shall we?"

The Dude and his dog started to run from the trailer to the place where Larry Chakawitz always was. When the Dude was roughly one-hundred feet away, he grabbed the detonator Larry supplied him with and eagerly rested his thumb on it. The Dude continued to look straight ahead on the route he took as his thumb pressed the button on the detonator to activate the C4. A deafening explosion could be heard behind them, as well as a brief glimmer of fiery light illuminated their surroundings. Sounds of metal twisting and hitting the ground were the last things from the explosion that could be heard. It was safe to say the Bitch would never be seen again, outside of a DNA test collected from a lump of burnt flesh.

The Dude smiled as the glorious sounds of the explosion rung in his ears as he imagined the Bitch being torn to hundreds of tiny pieces. Never again would he have to carry out trivial errands for a morbidly obese woman. The only drawback was that his car most likely also perished, leaving him without a vehicle. He could always find an alternate form of transportation. A bicycle wouldn't be that shabby, and he didn't need to pay for its gas. But this wasn't the time to ponder about personal transportation. This was the time to get the hell out of Paradise.

"I hope the bastard still remembers me. Otherwise, I'd better learn how to dig my way out of prison with just a toothbrush," the Dude thought to himself as he and Champ were running through the darkened streets to get out of this wretched city. Even short on breath, the Dude carried on, knowing that the police would be on his tail now. The outskirts of Paradise were reached, and much to the Dude's delight, was Larry Chakawitz's truck waiting for him.

"Looks like it's time for us to move on up! Git yo ass in here!"

The Dude placed the laptop in the passenger seat and lifted champ into the back of the truck. With Champ secured, he got into the passenger seat and moved the laptop onto his lap. Larry floored the gas pedal and drove off into the night.

"Woo hoo! That's what I called great conduct! You did a fine ass job back there!" Larry complemented the Dude on a job well done.

"Yeah well, at least she didn't keep anything in the divorce," joked the Dude. Larry laughed like a schoolboy.

"Heh hah! I foresee a long and prosperous future with ya at my side! I need to make a pit stop to relocate my cargo. You should probably help me so we don't have to worry with the law chasin' us as much. This your dog?"

"My only real friend. Fine by me; he won't try to report me to the police," the Dude joked, pleasing Larry Chakawitz with his charisma.

"Got any fancy ideas on where to head next? I was thinking about this place called Catharsis. I heard it was what Paradise was gonna be if we didn't help clean up them junkies. Lotsa good business waitin'. Still can't believe you done it, killing your wife. Wish I oughta did it to mine, now she's probably blowin' off some representative in secret."

Catharsis sounded much worse than Paradise to the Dude, but that also meant there would be plenty of action in his line of work.

"Anything interesting there?" the Dude wanted to know.

"Eh, not really, if you're talkin' 'bout famous buildings and shit. I met my wife there, if that tells you anything. Still though, place is practically crawling with them low lives, exactly the type you exterminated. My friend's friend can hook us up with anything we need, includin' cold, hard, cash. Hey, somebody's gotta rid this world of pests, right?" Larry explained as the truck approached Larry Chakawitz's secret stash.

The Dude got out of the truck, but because it was night time, didn't see where he was moving and lost his footing. He plummeted face-first onto the dirty, itchy sand with a pitiful "oomph" escaping his lips. Larry heard the Dude face plant onto the sand and rushed to help him up.

"You okay, boy?" Larry asked as he stood by the fallen Postal Dude. He came over to his right side to help him up, as he noticed something peculiar. It was a small, brown, instrument that showed sign of use. Larry put it up to his nose and took a whiff. It reeked with a smoky, intoxicating stench. He immediately knew what it was.

"Boy, the fuck is this? You been smokin' crack behind my back all this time?" Larry asked, with an angry, serious tone of voice. The Dude looked up and looked at Larry Chakawitz holding the crack pipe. He was at a loss for words as his heart started to race like never before. Larry didn't accept the Dude's silence as a valid answer.

"How could you fuckin' do this to me!? I thought we had something!" Larry cried, "I treated you like a son. A son! And now it turns out you're one of them!"

"Woah, let's not jump to conclusions like-"

The Dude's reasoning was cut off as Larry threw the crack pipe away and pulled out his Deagle. The barrel was in contact with the Dude's forehead as Larry's index finger was on the trigger.

"I should'a known better! You're just another fuckin' cockroach like the ones I've worked so hard killin' any way I can! You live like a roach; you gonna die like a roach!"

The Postal Dude tried to grab Larry Chakawitz's gun out of a desperate panic. His hand grabbed the barrel…only to set it off wildly. The Postal Dude fell backward from the recoil as his consciousness blanked. There stood Larry Chakawitz with the Dude's blood all over him, frustrated beyond comprehension upon finding out the Dude was another drug user that was Larry sought to exterminate from Arizona.

"I'm disappointed in you, boy. We could'a had something." Larry spat on the Dude as he picked up Champ and violently threw the dog to the ground. He loaded up his truck with as many crates the truck could allow before speeding off to Catharsis. Champ sniffed the Dude and whined, knowing that something terrible had happened. That's when Champ heard the blare of police sirens and saw the red and blue lights of said sirens closing in fast…


	7. Chapter Seven: Trouble Afoot

Today was Wednesday. The Police had been called to investigate an unusually large explosion that occurred last night. During their investigation, they also discovered a curious bright red truck flee Paradise and into the desert. When the police found the truck, they found the Dude shot in the head as his dog, Champ, sitting beside him in worry. An ambulance soon arrived on the scene and transported him to the Paradise Clinic in a last-ditch attempt to save his life. The doctors managed to stitch together his head in the nick of time to prolong his life, but the Dude was still in a coma until Wednesday night. Outside the Dude's room stood two police officers eating donuts and discussing the matter at hand.

"Are you sure this was a good idea? I mean, what if he can't even talk?" one cop said.

"He's the only lead we got. If you got any better ideas, speak up," the other cop said, quickly silencing the other. A doctor with a clipboard approached the door and was startled by the two police officers by the door.

"Hello, officers. Something troubling you?"

"That man in there, he's a convicted criminal that we need to talk to. Can he, though? He's really important…" one of the cops pleaded. The doctor looked at his clipboard had frowned,

"I don't know. He was on the brink of death, but we managed to save him in time. I'll be surprised if he does. But don't-"

"What's all we needed to hear."

Not wanting to talk anymore, the police officers spread out so the doctor could get into the Dude's room. The Dude slowly opened up his eyes and felt a splitting headache like never before.

"Oh man, it was just a horrible dream! Where the hell am I? And why does my medulla oblongata hurt?" the Dude looked up and saw the doctor standing at the foot of his bed.

"Just relax. You've suffered a terrible head injury, and you've barely survived your unfortunate firearms accident."

"I don't think having been shot in the head by a horribly mislead arms runner qualifies as an "accident;" the things that led up that moment probably do."

"Oh, is that what happened? The police outside didn't word it like that."

the Dude suddenly grew tense and nervous,

"What do you mean the police outside?" The doctor hushed him with a wave of his hand as he scanned his clipboard.

"Well, I'm no law enforcer, but I think they want to talk to you more in depth about your incident last night. But seeing how you just woke up from a twenty-four hour coma, maybe you'll get lucky and they'll go easy on you. Before you go, take these."

The doctor handed the Dude a prescription container for several morphine pills to numb the pain.

"I've had enough unpleasant encounters with drugs, but thanks anyway," said the Dude as he popped the pills in his mouth and felt his head pain be relieved almost instantly.

"How are your legs? Can you walk?"

"I think I can go from point A to point B without keeling over. And I better still have both kidneys, doctor."

The doctor chuckled as he went to the side of the Dude's bed and slowly helped him out of bed. They took several baby steps together until the doctor figured the Dude was healthy enough to walk on his own. The Dude stood at the door and took a deep breath before going out into the hallway. There stood the two police officers waiting for the Dude.

"Well, look who's up! You got a lot of explaining to do mister. Just cooperate with us and it'll go a lot smoother."

"Yeah, yeah, blah blah blah, slap the cuffs on me big man, seeing how a gravely injured man is a threat to you," the Dude replied as he stretched his arms out to be arrested. With a tight-fitting pair of handcuffs on him, the Dude was escorted to a police car outside the hospital where he would be thrown into the city jail.

"Do you even remember what you've done?" the cop in the passenger seat asked bitterly to the Dude. The Dude kept quiet during the whole trip to the jail. He was escorted out of the car and into the station. The nearby police officers in the station had extreme expressions of disgust as they saw the bandaged Dude be escorted to a cell on cellblock "FU" for the time being. As the cuffs came off him and he was put in the cell, the other police officer talked to him,

"You're gonna stay put right here until we've found time in our schedule to get a proper interrogation out of you. You'd better get as much rest as you can, but nothing is going to help you when the time comes."

The door was locked up as the Dude sat in a jail cell. He sat on the bed provided and contemplated the things he did in the past several days. From blowing up a meth lab, to blowing up a protesting crowd, to blowing up his trailer home where his wife was, and now in jail after waking up from a short coma, nothing seemed to go as planned. The Dude thought back to Larry Chakawitz's hasty and violent conclusion on discovering his crack pipe. He sighed in disgust, wishing ever more for revenge in the most sadistic and prolonged way possible for Larry. Accepting that this day was over, the Dude went to sleep on the cell bed, getting an uneasy sleep.

Today was Thursday, and the Dude was still holed up in cellblock "FU" after just getting out of a coma. He had no clue where Larry Chakawitz was, or even Champ, for that matter. He waited long hours for the police to come to his cell to set him free for the interrogation they mentioned. Eventually, just as the sun was going down, a police officer approached with a key ring on his side.

"Looks like it's judgement day for you. Follow me and don't try anything stupid." The police officer opened up the cell door to escort the Dude to the interrogation room. The Dude shrugged and followed the police offer straight to the interrogation room. It was dingy, unsettling, and cramped. A single metal table with some files, two chairs, a one-way mirror, and a security camera were the only objects present. The officer sat down with the Dude, sporting an angry look on his face.

"Now, let's get straight to the matter, mister. Or should I call you "Dude" like everybody else? Here, the police report says that you've had illegal possession of explosives, killed at least twenty people with the very same explosives, one of whom was your wife, mind you. In addition, you've committed thousands of dollars in property damage, illegal narcotic possession, indecent exposure, and that's the stuff we only know about!" the officer said hastily as the Dude listened calmly and quietly to his rap sheet. He leaned back in his chair, acting cocky.

"But, you do know why we didn't leave you out to die in the desert, right mister Dude?"

"Because making a man suffer more than he has to by locking him up behind bars for life turns you on more than leaving him with a bullet in his head?"

"Watch your tone! That's not why we saved you. You're only alive because of me so you can help us catch Larry Chakawitz. Ring any bells? The court-martialed bigot that's leading his own insane war on poverty and drugs that tried to kill you? You know that group of protestors you killed on Tuesday? You think they were just some other druggies? Uh-uh, they were clean; the evidence we recovered from forensics on them confirms this! You were a puppet, as much as you don't want to admit it. You-"

Another police officer walked into the interrogation room. He was at least seven feet tall and had a grizzly beard. He looked at the police officer interrogating the Dude and put a stop to it.

"Dawkins, what's the matter with you? You really want to talk to our only lead like that?" the tall officer said in an old, grizzly voice, with a vague hint of being a past smoker. The officer sitting in the chair looked behind and started to sweat out of embarrassment.

"But, But he-"

"No buts. Get out of here and let me do the talking, unless you want that good conduct record of yours to be a thing of the past."

The cop's eyes were opened completely as he silently got up and left the interrogation room in shame. The tall officer took his place.

"You'll have to excuse Dawkins, he's got the attitude of Chakawitz. Your name's Dude, was it? Quite an odd name indeed, but I suppose it's fitting for someone like you. Name's Warwick. I'm the lead officer trying to track down Chakawitz. The sources pin you as being his most recent handyman. Now, none of us in a uniform are pleased with what you've done, but I think we can cut a deal here."

"I'm pretty sure we can't."

"I disagree. Let me give you a quick rundown on Chakawitz's background. Long story short, he joined the military at an early age just to escape from his cocaine-addicted father, and when the military deported him, his mind snapped. Now with his military connections he has enough arms to wage war against a small country just to take it out on some of the people we're trying to help. You're our only real lead on him, since the other ones simply refuse to talk or got nailed with lethal injection."

"And ain't that a shame," the Dude replied, feeling a bit better that he didn't have to sit here and get yelled at.

"Now, I know what you've done for the most part, and I'm the only one willing to work something out with you. How would you like to go after that bastard yourself? With our help, of course," Warwick offered, instantly catching the Dude's attention, "You bring his head to us, and we can let you go a free man. You don't know how many strings I'm pullin' here just to try and offer this proposition."

"So, I get a shot at the man who shot me for my freedom. If I'm still dreaming you better pinch me."

"And I just did. Your own background suggests you being as bloodthirsty as Chakawitz. It's a good trait to have when it comes to revenge. And that is exactly what we're trying to offer you. We can track down that bastard and finally bring him to justice. What do you say you help out this wretched town and Arizona as a whole?" Warwick proposed to the Dude.

"Hey, it's my funeral anyway. May as well think on whether or not you, I, or cardiac arrest will get to him first. If my dog, champ, safe?"

"We found your dog in the desert by your body and moved it to the local pound for safe keeping. We can return him to you if you take my proposition." Warwick explained, further intriguing the Dude on whether or not to undertake this job.

"Let me in on this so I can get out. "

The Dude had agreed to undertake this job to kill Larry Chakawitz on behalf of the police force in Paradise, Arizona.

"Good man, good man," Warwick applauded for the Dude willing to go after Larry Chakawitz, "Just remember what you're dealing with; I'm sure that head wound of yours is a good reminder. Before you got shot in the head, did Chakawitz talk about where he was going to go next? It's common of him to skip town after one of his accomplices get busted."

The Dude thought back to last night where he was taking a ride with Larry Chakawitz. He focused on the part where the two of them were discussing what happens next. That's when the Dude remembered a crucial piece of information,

"He mentioned going to some place called Catharsis."

"Catharsis? Heh, I haven't heard of that place in years. Figured he'd be trying to hold out there to find some other bastard to get him to do his dirty work. Have you ever been to Catharsis? It's a town worse than this, believe it or not. A lot of flak comes from some fanatical group dubbed the Ecozealots and the local hockey moms. Of course, a lot of it also comes from the general nature of its residents. We can transport you there, if that's where he's currently at."

The Postal Dude agreed with hunting down Larry Chakawitz in Catharsis to help clear his name of the atrocities he committed a few days ago. With that, the interrogation was over as Warwick led him back to his cell.

"We'll move you out Friday morning to Catharsis. We'll also inform the Catharsis police force about your coming so you can get some extra manpower. The bastard's known for not staying in a single town for more than a week, and if he sees you back from the dead he'll most likely try to make a run for it again. We'll hook you up with a radio to quickly contact us once you finish the job. If you screw this up in any way, don't remind us." Warwick explained to the Dude as he closed the cell door behind him. Tomorrow was going to be a big day for not just for the Dude, but for Paradise and Catharsis as a whole.


	8. Chapter Eight: Catharsis Chronicals

It was Friday morning as the Postal Dude woke up with head pains. The only thing he could think of was venturing out to a bigger shithole than Paradise and going on a manhunt for his freedom. It seemed fair enough, given that Larry Chakawitz couldn't finish the job on the Dude. The next time the two of them would meet, the outcome would most certainly be different. Officer Warwick came up to the Dude with a set of keys as Officer Dawkins followed closely behind him. A couple of jangle sounds later, the cell door opened up.

"It's time, Mister Dude," Dawkins said as he ushered the Dude to step out of his cell.

"You ready to go on a little trip?" Warwick asked as the three men went to the evidence room. There stood two shelves on each wall, and each shelf was stacked with all sorts of incriminating evidence to be used against suspected criminals. Among the objects was the Dude's Deagle pistol with its magazine right next to it. The three of them left the station and out into the cooler, yet still blistering air. Across the station stood a single police car with the motor already running.

"Take a seat in the back. You'll get your toys back soon enough." Warwick ordered the Dude, who took a seat in the back of the police car. It felt as stiff and uncomfortable as before while the other two officers got into the front seats. Warwick took the wheel and Dawkins rode shotgun, still sporting a sour, disapproving look on his face. To Catharsis they went, leaving Paradise and taking the shoddy, dust-covered road.

"I hope you're right about him being at Catharsis. Gas doesn't cost the same these days. Neither does time." Warwick casually chatted, trying to help lighten the mood.

"I still can't believe we're doing this," Dawkins injected, moaning, "This is just beyond our protocol."

"The reason I'm in charge of this operation is because I'm the one with the good ideas. It's foolproof, don't you see? And if you just so happen to know anybody else we can use for leverage against Larry Chakawitz, then by all means speak up, boy." Warwick hushed Dawkins right then and there. The childish cop only groaned and slouched back in the chair.

"You could learn a little good conduct from him," joked the Dude, teasing Dawkins to help alleviate the stuffy cop car with the windows rolled up. To which Dawkins only replied,

"Shut up. At least I'm not a psychopath like or you Chakawitz."

"Why don't you take your own advice for once, Dawkins? This attitude of yours is starting to aggravate me. It's a great step towards having some leadership." Warwick hushed Dawkins once again, this time for good. An hour passed in nearly unbearable heat until the police car arrived in Catharsis, Arizona. One glance at the town was all it took to rub newcomers the wrong way. Warwick drove the car through the streets until the car was outside the Catharsis Police Station. The officers stepped out of the car as Dawkins handed the Dude his radio. Warwick loaded the Deagle to give it back to the Dude and opened the door for him to get out.

"This is the Devil's rectum if I ever felt it," commented the Dude upon the intense heat. It was roughly ninety-six degrees Fahrenheit outside; way hotter than Paradise.

"We'll, we're here. Let's get you acquainted with the few good folks here to help us out. If you see him, don't hesitate to eliminate him by any means necessary. Good luck, you'll need it, Dude."

The Dude pocketed his Deagle and exhaled deeply. It was time to find that backstabbing bastard and settle the score.

Warwick, Dawkins, and the Postal Dude walked into the police station, where there stood a short desk jockey with buck teeth and thick glasses hunching over papers. He looked up at the three men and straightened out his back to take care of them,

"Hello, gentlemen. Did you find one of those Ecozealots and want bring him in? What's with his head?" the Dude barely refrained from pulling out his Deagle and popping a cap in the desk jockey's ass upon hearing such a wretched voice.

"Is Lieutenant Deutschbagge present? We need to speak with him." Warwick answered as he started to grow impatient. The desk jockey nodded awkwardly in silence.

"Second floor. Your right. I'm pretty sure he's holding some sort of meeting, but I'm sure he won't mind the company." With that, the officers and the Dude went to see Lieutenant Deutschbagge on the second floor. Faint sounds of a speech could be heard in one of the offices, as Warwick knew this was where he was.

"…And that is why all of us are here today." Lieutenant Deutschbagge wrapped up his speech just as the men from Paradise stepped in. The room had a dozen Catharsis peacekeepers sitting at the table looking at a slideshow presentation as all of them looked at the unexpected guests.

"You don't look familiar. What happened to that one? You bang him up too bad from an assault charge?" Lieutenant Deutschbagge asked; the Dude getting fed up with the attention to his head wound.

"You must be Lieutenant Deutschbagge. I am Paradise police officer Randall Warwick, and this is Troy Dawkins. The one with the bandage only refers to himself "Dude" I think. We're here on some pretty urgent matters concerning Catharsis."

Lieutenant Deutschbagge put his hands on his hips and tilted his head in curiosity. He would've dismissed the Dude right away, but he knew better than that in the presence of two other officers.

"And what matters are we discussing here?" Lieutenant Deutschbagge asked, feeling somewhat worried about what Warwick and Dawkins had to say.

"We came here to find a proud, too proud, advocate of the Second Amendment by the name of Larry Chakawitz. He didn't finish the job on me, but the police here want to finish the job on him. Then we can all go home and scratch ourselves with a nice beer in our hand on a job well done." The Dude summarized the situation at hand, and the other police offers started to look and whisper at each other.

"Larry Chakawitz? You mean, _the_ Larry Chakawitz that's waging his own war on the homeless?" Lieutenant Deutschbagge asked to make sure. All three of the Paradise men nodded.

"The Dude here says he's in your town, trying to hire another henchman do start shooting up a bunch of people with atrociously low finances and a bad rap sheet concerning narcotics," Dawkins added to the conversation, "we came here to ask for your help. Well, can you?"

"I'm not sure my new recruits are ready for a manhunt like this…"

"Just fetch the less recently broken in ones instead. These newcomers could probably learn a lot from this operation. You and your men do know how to deal with a manhunt, or am I sadly mistaken?" Warwick crossed his arms and was starting to get fed up with the lieutenant's hesitation. Lieutenant Deutschbagge closed his eyes tightly and clenched his fist before giving his response,

"We'll help," clearly he wasn't bringing his A-game today, whether he was a coward or he didn't want to risk some of his finest men dying today, "Go on ahead without us. We'll make up for the lost time while you three can get a head start looking for him."

Warwick smiled at Deutschbagge's cooperation. He and Dawkins turned around and walked out of the conference room with the Dude. The Dude's gut feeling told him that Deustchbagge wouldn't be pitching in to help the three of them find Larry Chakawitz until he was already found and subdued, or escaped. Knuckles and neck cracked, the Dude stepped out of the station and back to the unbearably hot and arid air.

"Looks like it's just us for now. We should split up. If you pick up something suspicious, tell it to us with your radio. That includes you, Mister "Dude." I'll take the left side and Warwick can take the right side. Looks like you're stuck with the middle path. Remember to look everywhere for that rat!" Dawkins ordered as he and Warwick darted off opposite directions, leaving to the Dude to himself.

"I guess I better get started. Hey, at least I get to see the sites this place has to offer! All none of them." cracked the Dude as he started to walk down the street in search of Larry Chakawitz.

Not even a minute on his route, the Postal Dude got sidetracked by a porn shop, aptly named Porn World. The girls on the outside looked erotic enough, and maybe Chakawitz would be inside to make things easier for him.

"I would just use a computer, but sometimes you gotta make do with what life gives you."

The Dude entered Porn World and was bathed in a soft magenta light, similar to those at seedy clubs. The walls were lined with an arcade cabinet called _Porn Fighter _that only existed to squeeze more revenue towards this establishment. Across from the arcades was the counter were horny customers would pay for their goods and get out to "use" them. At the counter stood the cashier and owner of Porn World, Raul Chomo. That was his real name, but it wasn't known by the Dude, as the nametag on his shirt simply read, "Ron J." He also sported a stereotypical porn mustache and a red baseball cap with the letter "C" in the middle.

"Hey there," the Dude tried to act friendly just for one bit in hopes of finding out where Larry Chakawitz was, "this sounds silly to ask, but did a short, pudgy, bald guy run in here at all?"

"Yeah, a couple did, but you gotta be more specific. He wear anything in particular?"

"Uh, I think a type of hunting jacket. Was colored yellow but was mostly gray. I think he was missing a few teeth. His name was Larry Chakawitz." Raul Chomo gave the Dude a suspicious look.

"Nope, sorry bub. But if you got some time to spare, you could help me clean up this place. Lotta people been leaving trash behind, and I sure as hell ain't gonna pick up after them. I'll pay ya, though."

The Dude thought that cleaning up after the serviced customers of Porn World would be a quick and easy buck in the middle of his manhunt, so he agreed. Raul Chomo handed the Dude a back-mounted vacuum cleaner and showed him deeper inside the store. The hallways were littered in dozens of used, sticky tissues.

"Look at all these tissues. Suck up every last one of them and I'll pay you. When this thing gets full, just blow them out into the trash and repeat. Got it?" Raul Chomo asked the Dude, who was busy examining the nozzle of the vacuum.

"Floors and flu season are no matches for me."

"Good. Don't bother trying to talk to me until you finish up." With the matter settled, Raul Chomo went back behind the counter as the Dude started to suck up the used tissues on the floor. It was a lot more fun than it should've been as every tissue was drawn in from the suction and entered the container, with a satisfying "pop" noise. The Dude went up and down the hallway and into the empty private rooms until the vacuum was at its peak. Luckily, there was a trash can right beside him as the vacuum cleaner sucked up the final tissue. Just before he pointed the nozzle in the trash, he heard Raul Chomo yell in terror.

"Here we go again," groaned the Dude upon hearing ominous sounds not too far away from where he was. He hurried down the stairs, catching glimpses of panic customers fleeing the store and out the door. A gang of hockey moms stood at the entrance of Porn World, giving menacing gazes to the men fleeing. One middle-aged woman with glasses and a humungous nose confronted Raul Chomo, opening her equally humungous mouth and complained,

"Places like this are exactly what are wrong with this world! How could you do such a degrading and vile thing involving these women? We're not objects; shame on you!" The woman nagged and nagged, appearing to be the leader of the group. One other hockey mom saw a stray tissue wad on the floor and vomited on sight. Perhaps they were allergic, or they simply had weak gag reflexes. The Dude pitied their husbands, but got a great idea as he aimed his vacuum cleaner at the group of milfs. He puckered his lips and whistled loudly to get their attention.

"Hello, ladies! I've cooked up something special for all of you!"

The Dude reversed the suction of the vacuum cleaner and blew a sticky tissue wad at the leader milf, giving her a the surprised face of a lifetime. The tissue stuck to her shoulder, and she hesitated to pry it off. Two more were flung her way to amplify the drama. One tissue stuck to her chest as another one hit her square in the eye. Her body couldn't take the sensation of used tissues clinging to her skin as she loudly puked right on the floor.

"Hey, don't look at me like that. It's actually good for your skin. Here, have some more!"

The Dude merrily fired tissues at the group of protesting hockey milfs and nailed them in varying locations. Some tissues landed in their hair, while others stuck to their limbs like velcro. It didn't take long for all of them to get disgusted enough to abandon the protest and leave Porn World.

"That's it! I'll see you in court!" sassed the head milf as the women left Porn World. Raul Chomo wiped the sweat off his forehead and had a sigh of relief.

"Man, it's a good thing you came along. That'll teach those milfs to fuck with me!" exclaimed Raul Chomo, delighted at having the protestors leave. "Unfortunately, those bitches scared away all the customers, so I can't pay you! Tell you what; I can pay you by having you pat yourself on the back for helping me out from the bottom of your heart. And as a bonus, you can keep that piece of hardware for yourself. How does that sound?"

"Can I have free porn instead?" The Dude tried to bargain for some free porn, but Raul Chomo was a cheapskate and refused to let the Dude part ways with free porn. That's when the Dude's radio started to emit scratchy, near incomprehensible audio. He pulled out the radio and responded to the officer on the line.

"Dude, where are you? Did anything happen? Report!" Dawkins was on the other end, asking the Dude for a status report. The Dude gave a sitrep on his current being,

"Let's just say that I put a group of protesting milfs in a sticky situation, heh heh."

There was silence on the radio for an extended period of time.

"Dude, are you at Porn World? You better have a good reason to be there!" Dawkins barked at the Dude for slacking off.

"How did you know that? You frequent here?"

"Goddammit! You wanna go free or not? Start looking for Chakawitz! And if I call you again and you're still at Porn World, we'll just terminate this whole hunt and give you the punishment you deserve! You got that!?"

Dawkins was definitely not happy about the Dude's current behavior as he turned off his radio. The Dude shrugged and put it back in his pocket as he started to hand over the vacuum cleaner back to Raul Chomo. It served no useful purpose for the Dude now.


	9. Chapter Nine: Retribution in Action

"Looks like I gotta be somewhere else," the Dude said quickly as he walked out of the door, not bothering to clean up the tissues he shot at the protestors. Before Raul Chomo could come out from the counter and tan his hide, the Dude started to sprint off into Catharsis, remember the reason why he was here.

The Dude skimmed around the town's perimeter looking for Larry Chakawitz, but found no traces of him. No jacket, no truck, no abundant supply of weapons in sight. Soon he wound up at back at the Catharsis Police Station empty handed. Deciding that it was time for a quick meet up, the Dude pulled out the radio and ordered Warwick and Dawkins back to the station.

"This is the Dude; maybe we should meet up back at the police station and discuss our findings. I'm sure he's still here somewhere." He hoped Warwick wasn't as steamed as Dawkins. Turns out, he was.

"I'd never thought you'd have the shame to speak up after hearing what Dawkins told me. What kind of man stops in a porn shop while he's supposed to be looking for a dangerous man that nearly killed him? I'll only say this once, so listen carefully. Straighten out your priorities. That means keep looking for him and maintain professionalism over the radio. We can't afford to waste time meeting up." Warwick was not pleased at all with the Dude's actions.

"Well, is there any place we didn't look?" replied the Dude, who waited for Warwick to speak again. Luckily, he did.

"Only place I can think of is the park. I haven't been here in a long time, so excuse my memory. You'd better try there since you're closer than us. Next time I hear from you, you better have something good for us. Warwick out."

And just like that, Warwick discontinued the conversation as the Dude's radio failed to transmit Warwick's voice.

"Hmm," pondered the Dude, "I don't think they were exactly happy with what I was doing just now. Well, they did mention the park being the only place they didn't look. I may as well check out the park and stop to smell the flower along the way to my freedom, heh hah!" The Dude was stoked about either officer catching Larry Chakawitz while he lounged within Catharsis. Off to the park the dude went with a cheeky grin. To his surprise, the grass was actually green and not brown.

"Glad to see the water is being put to its absolute best use," commented the Dude sarcastically, not liking parks at all. He sat on one of the benches and crossed one leg as he sat back and watched the clouds go across the sky. He felt at peace; almost like he could drift off to sleep and be left alone. The Dude's daydreams were cut short as he heard a quiet yet familiar voice deeper in the park…

"Now, nobody should be botherin' us right here!"

The same unmistakable dialect and haste of his words filled the air. No doubt about it; it was the voice of Larry Dude twisted his head to see him working out a deal similar to the one he made with the Dude on Monday to a new employee. He had dirty green hair, more piercings on his than you would want to imagine, and had a tasteless purple and black color scheme death metal shirt on him with tight jeans. The Dude guessed literally anybody not bound to a wheelchair could be taken under Chakawitz's wing as a henchman.

"Seems happy enough. I wonder if he'll talk to me about old times?" The Dude got up and ran towards Larry Chakawitz and his soon to be employee. Larry heard the footsteps coming his way and turned to his side to see the Dude coming at him with murderous intent. Sweat drops were formed on Larry's bald head as he couldn't believe what he saw.

"Why hello there! I just wanted to swing by here and give you two gentlemen an invitation to the Psychotic Friends Network Barbecue! First dozen people invited get a hearty steak to go with a good beer! What do you say, _Larry_?" announced the Dude, expression his hostility in the last part.

"Woah, dude! Where'd you get that trench coat? You steal it off a pimp and getting whacked for it? I wanna join your party, bro!" Chakawitz's new employee said, clearly showing that wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.

"How about you, _Chakawitz_? Maybe we could even squeeze off a few rounds together, just like in old times. Remember? Of course you do." The Dude put his right hand in his trench coat, ready to whip out his gun and make some new holes in Larry's head. Larry grew more uncomfortable with each passing second.

"S'cuse me for a second, will ya? I think I left my pen in my truck over yonder. You two just stay put, hear me?"

Larry Chakawitz kicked his legs into high gear and made a run for his truck to get the hell out of Catharsis. He simply could not believe the Dude was alive, and he certainly didn't want to stick around to see what the Dude had in mind for his barbecue. Chakawitz juked and jived side by side, becoming a tough target to shoot. The Dude fiercely chased after Chakawitz, occasionally firing off a round that went wide. The combination of Larry's deceptive sprinting capabilities and the Dude's head wound made aiming all the more difficult.

"You fucking cocksucker! I thought you was dead! I'mma disconnect your head from your neck soon, ya hear me!?" Larry bellowed in rage while continuing to make a mad dash to his truck. The Dude was now down to three shots left in his gun as Chakawitz closed in his truck. He flung the door open and piled in within a second, locking it behind him. Larry kept his head below the window to make sure the Dude wouldn't have an easy shot. The Dude could hear the engine starting just as he was closing the distance to his ticket to freedom,

"You probably thought you weren't going to die today,"

The Dude came in close enough to shoot out the driver seat window with a single shot. A shower of glass rained down on Larry, making him flinch for just a second. That was all the Dude needed to jam his gun inside Larry's truck and point the gun right at the back of his head,

"Surprise!"

The Dude jerked his arm suddenly as he was aiming for an easy execution. The bullet went into Larry Chakawitz's right shoulder, making him howl in great pain. He threw up his arms as best as he could and submitted to the Dude,

"Fuck, you win! You win! Just kill me!"

The Dude unlocked the car door from the inside and threw Larry Chakawitz straight to the ground. He pitifully tried to crawl away while having been shot in the shoulder, but the Dude turned him over onto his back. Now standing on top of the man he sought after, the Dude planted his feet on Larry's to prevent him from squirming away. Using the side of his Deagle, the Dude bashed Larry across the face half a dozen times in a bout of unquenchable rage. When the Dude stopped, he slid back the top of his Deagle and pointed it straight at Chakawitz.

"Fucking bitch, I knew yous was a no good junkie! I can't fuckin' believe a low-life, skinny bastard like yous gonna do me in." Larry spat as his final words. Rather than just shooting him in the head, the Dude got a much better idea. He pocketed the Deagle for now and grabbed Larry by the arms to help him up. When enough momentum was built up, Larry was flung against the sound of his truck, making a hollow clunking noise as his face ate paint. Larry was right next to the gas cap, on his knees and his torso leaning forward. The Dude somberly backed up with the Deagle now in his hand and gave his regards to Larry Chakawitz,

"You ever had one of those days?"

With that, the Postal Dude pulled the trigger and shot the last bullet at the gas cap. The bullet bored straight through the surface of the vehicle, and the explosive result sent Larry and his truck up in bone-burning flames. The upper quarter of Larry's face was completely burned off as he flew backwards and up onto the ground. His truck crashed down, making a horrendously loud noise of crunching metal that fell upon all the ears in Catharsis. The wave energy pierced the Postal Dude with an unparalleled feeling of satisfaction; warmth from getting revenge and from the shockwave wave filling his very soul. He smiled and celebrated the occasion by approaching Larry's near unrecognizable corpse and emptying his bladder to add insult to injury.

"Now the flowers will grow."

The Postal Dude finished up his victory piss just as Warwick and Dawkins came to investigate the explosion with a dozen other late Catharsis cops. The Postal Dude looked up with a telling smirk on his face as he planted his left foot on the piss sodden corpse,

"He's all yours, boy."

With a simple motion, the Postal Dude kicked Larry's corpse towards the police, covering only about four inches of ground. Both of the Paradise officers approached and examined Larry with trained eyes. Larry's newest employee approached the scene as well, almost as enthralled as the Dude.

"Woah! I wanna join the Psychotic Friends Network Barbecue now! That was sick, dude!"

All the while the Postal Dude stood proudly before the scene he made. Most of the cops from Catharsis looked terrified of what the Postal Dude had done. Warwick and Dawkins finished up their examining of the body as they held out their hands as Warwick congratulated the Postal Dude on a job well done,

"You're free to go, Mister Dude."

Officers Randall Warwick and Troy Dawkins shook the Dude's hands at once, beaming with the satisfaction of knowing that one of their biggest cases could be put to rest for good.

"We'll go get your dog, but where are you going to go now, Mister Dude? Your trailer is gone, and you don't have any money…" Dawkins asked the Dude on what to do now as Warwick went back to the squad car to pick up Champ. The Postal Dude remembered that he still had a very good amount of cash on hand to at least get him through a few weeks of rent. He casually walked through the crowd and out to the main street, leaving behind a comment on his future,

"My errands are finally over."


End file.
